


talking to dead stars

by Bekka911



Category: NCIS
Genre: Case Fic, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Anthony DiNozzo, Hurt Anthony DiNozzo, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Late-ish Season 3, Look Tony doesn't take care of himself, Nobody is the bad guy here, Sickness, Soft Ziva David, Sort Of, Tony DiNozzo & Jethro Gibbs Father-Son Relationship, Tony DiNozzo Needs A Hug, Unreliable Narrator, Worried Jethro Gibbs, a few OC's for a case, all the ships are here pretty much, i did some research but i don't promise anything, kate is dead, kind of, look - Freeform, made up military things, okay well, pick a ship and squint hard enough, there's no timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29922753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bekka911/pseuds/Bekka911
Summary: Kate's gravestone has dirt on it.(Tony's not doing so well, and he thinks nobody notices.Then he gets sick.)
Relationships: Anthony DiNozzo & Abby Sciuto, Anthony DiNozzo & Caitlin Todd, Anthony DiNozzo & Jethro Gibbs, Anthony DiNozzo & Timothy McGee, Jethro Gibbs & Caitlin Todd, Ziva David & Anthony DiNozzo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	talking to dead stars

**Author's Note:**

> I make absolutely no promises, but I've been working on this for weeks now. I am very much late to the NCIS party, and am taking the scenic route of writing about the early seasons, because I prefer them. Also, the end of this first chapter is hardly edited because I really just wanted to get it out there.
> 
> There's no set pairing because I'm kind of neutral about all that, so look hard enough and ship what you want. 
> 
> Also, I don't know if you can tell, but I fucking loved Kate. I hate that she didn't stick around.
> 
> Anyways, there will be a second chapter to this, so please stick around!!
> 
> As always, leave your thoughts in the comments!

Kate’s gravestone has dirt on it.

It’s raining today, though, and Tony watches with only the vaguest sort of interest as that dirt turns to a sludgy kind of mud and smears down the smooth stone. It feels almost disrespectful to witness, because Kate had despised filth, and so to see it desecrate her grave-

It’s the kind of thing that Tony used to do when she was still alive. He’d once ordered live crickets from a reptile shop and let them loose in Kate’s top drawer. The headslap from Gibbs and banishment to the cold case file room had been worth it to hear her shrieking.

And now, even in death, Kate can’t avoid the dirt. He’d be laughing, if it was funny. 

Instead, he pulls out a very soaked-through cloth and wipes at the mud until it’s gone. 

“Hi Kate,” he croaks, throat rubbed raw, and then he stays there, silently, crouched over her grave. There are other things he wants to say, but as always, the words dissolve on his tongue and leave a bad taste in his mouth. He’d never been able to tell Kate the things that really mattered.

It doesn’t take long for the rain to ease around him, but Tony doesn’t uncurl from his position. He misses her - sometimes, her absence is so sharp and pointed that he can feel it slice into his chest, forcing his already-broken lungs to break, his already fractured heart to shatter.

Seeing Ziva sit at Kate’s desk, every day, rubs him raw in ways that has to keep to himself. Because work is not the place for bitterness and grief. Gibbs needs him sharp, focused, engaged. Gibbs needs his best work, and Tony needs Gibbs to need him, so he swallows the pain down and goes on.

But there are days like today, where Tony visits Kate and lets that wordless, voiceless _hurt_ steal his breath away.

He’s startled from his melancholy by his phone ringing. It’s Gibbs, of course, because Tony is at the graveyard instead of at work. Tony presses the little 'answer' button and forces the phone up to his ear. “DiNozzo,” he says flatly.

“I’m looking at an empty desk, DiNozzo.” There’s a pause that grates on Tony’s nerves, just a little. Finally, Gibbs sighs and says, a little more gently now, “You’ve got sick leave stored up if you need the day off.”

Tony swallows and keeps his eyes trained on Kate’s gravestone, tracing her name over and over with his eyes. He can stay here, with her, for the day and it’ll be fine. Gibbs and McGee and Ziva can handle the day without him. He has the leave saved up. He knows the director will grant it to him without question.

He traces Kate’s name over and over and over-

“No boss,” he says and tears his eyes away, instead looking out over the graveyard. The rain has scared everybody else away. “I’m coming in now. I won’t be too long.”

Slowly, Tony uncurls from his crouch, straightening up until he’s standing. Always towering above Kate. Never letting himself see eye-to-eye. He ignores his sodden bones as they click and crack at the new position, and instead rolls his shoulders to coax out more of the horrible sounds.

Gibbs is still on the phone. “Tony,” he says, in the same tone of voice that he’d used that night that Kate had died. Tony waits for the criticism, the niceness, the order. Anything that Gibbs asks of him, he’ll do. Instead, Gibbs clears his throat and says gruffly, “It’s been raining. Make sure you’re wearing something warm and dry when you get here, so you don’t splash water all over the place.”

“Yes boss,” he agrees, and lets Gibbs be the one to hang up.

When Tony finally makes himself walk away from the grave, he can’t quite bear to make himself say goodbye.

He gets in his car - ugly and grey and boring - and starts it up, peeling out of the car park as fast as he can on the wet road. He hates this car, hates the blandness of it, but he’d tried to replace the Corvette and it just hadn’t...felt right. Everything special and unusual had reminded him of Kate, again and again and again, so he’d chosen something that everybody had and nobody noticed, just to make her go away.

It’s a normal car. Kate might’ve liked normal, for him.

The drive to the Navy Yard is quick and boring. The rain has kept away most of the usual traffic. Tony can’t find it in himself to be grateful for it. He’s driving almost on autopilot - his unimpressive car tracing the familiar streets easily, lost amongst the other unimpressive cars. When he parks, it takes him nearly five minutes to turn the damn thing off and get out.

He’s Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo and he can’t even park a fucking car. 

He shakes his head and rifles through his trunk, pulling out a neatly folded spare suit in charcoal grey - he’s surely ruined his very expensive Pal Zileri suit by standing in the rain. It’s not an ideal start to the morning, but he’ll live.

He doesn’t lock his ugly car when he enters the building. If someone wants it, they can have it. It’s not important enough for him to care about it. It’s just a car.

He changes swiftly in the bathroom, because Gibbs is nice to him on Kate Days, but isn’t nice by nature. Tony only has a set amount of minutes to burn through before his tardiness gets him into actual trouble with his boss. It’s why he doesn’t let himself falter when he slips onto the elevator and finds it already occupied.

It’s Richard Bradbury. Tony smiles. He can handle Richard Bradbury for a few minutes.

“Hey Richie Rich!” he greets cheerfully, messing with his left shirt cuff irritably. He can’t get it to lie flat and it’s bothering him. He didn’t have this problem with his Pal Zileri suit. “Weather’s a bit terrible today, isn’t it?”

Richard snorts, like Tony’s just said something funny, and eyes him a little too keenly for Tony’s taste. “Yeah. From the looks of it, you got caught right in the middle.” He nods at Tony’s unkempt hair and unrefined suit. “Haven’t seen that level of carelessness for a while. You feeling alright, DiNozzo?”

Here is the conundrum:

Richard Bradbury is not the kind of person to care about your emotions. He isn’t a touchy-feely guy. He doesn’t have a gentle touch in his body, which is why he’s sworn never to have kids, and why he never really deals with victim’s families. 

Richard Bradbury is renowned in NCIS for being the sharpest person in the agency, who can spot a crack in anybody’s masks, can pick out liars with uncanny accuracy, and will never be foiled by someone undercover.

So Tony’s in a corner, here. Because no, he’s not alright, but Richard won’t care about that. However, if he says that he _is_ okay, the lie will be sniffed out instantly, and then he’ll be getting _more_ attention. And not the good kind of attention. The bad kind - the kind that makes Tony’s skin crawl.

Tony smiles. “Mixing the smart with the casual today, Richie,” he says, maybe a little too feral. “You know me, always making a statement.”

“Yeah,” Richard agrees as the elevator glides to a stop and opens the door. His lips are slightly pursed, eyes bright with interest, but he doesn’t press the issue. He claps Tony on the back once. “Yeah, I know you. Take care of yourself, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t answer, but something settles crooked in his chest as Richard heads his own way. 

He wishes, vaguely, that he hadn’t ruined his good suit. This one makes his whole body itch.

He wanders over to his desk, frowning at the cup of coffee that sits in front of his keyboard. He sends suspicious looks to Ziva and McGee, both of whom are already looking back at him with curious eyes. 

Tony picks up the cup. It’s full. “This isn’t a trap, is it?” He asks, lifting the cup up and tilting it towards each of them. He wouldn’t put it past them to pull such a prank on him. “No salt instead of sugar? Battery acid? This isn’t Gibbs’s coffee, is it?” It’d be just his luck that he’d end up drinking Gibbs’ coffee. 

A voice speaks up from somewhere beyond his left shoulder and he jumps slightly. “Just drink it, DiNozzo, it’ll help warm you up.” Speak of the fucking devil. 

Tony obediently takes a sip, watching his boss stride over to his own desk and yank open his drawer, snatching up his Sig. “Where are we going, boss?”

Gibbs glances over to him, eyes narrowing slightly at his SFA’s unkempt appearance. “Norfolk, now that you’ve decided to show up. Petty Officers Alex Claine and Martin Denver were found in a shipping container on the dock, two hours after they reached land.”

Tony grimaces. Bodies in tight spaces always manage to stink something fierce. Strong smells make his head hurt - he’s already got a strong headache forming right between his eyebrows, he doesn’t need anything to make it even fucking stronger. 

Ziva obviously catches the look on his face from her desk - _Kate’s desk, it’s fucking Kate’s desk_ \- and sniffs haughtily. “I see that murder displeases you.” She pins him to the spot with her dark eyes, her Mossad-bred insensitivities making her blind and deaf to his struggle. “Perhaps you can tell the families that you were inconvenienced by finding their kin dead.”

“Ziva,” Gibbs warns, quietly.

Those dark eyes flash with indignation, but the hard look on Gibbs’ face doesn’t relent when she turns to him, so she lets it go with a huff. Tony catches McGee’s disgruntled look and frowns. Suddenly, he feels nauseous, and his chest feels tight. He doesn’t want Gibbs to play favourites, because it only reminds him of Kate, and how much more Gibbs had loved her.

When everyone stands up to leave, he drops the cup of coffee in the bin, still full. The motion gives Gibbs unusual pause, and he stops to rap his knuckles on Tony’s desk as Ziva and McGee head for the elevator. The look he gives Tony is intense and yet somehow kind.

Tony doesn’t feel comfortable around a _kind_ Gibbs. 

He nods sharply at the unvoiced question. Gibbs’ mouth tightens. They make their way over to their junior agents without a word said between them.

The drive to Norfolk is similarly quiet, the silence broken only by McGee’s occasional question, always asked in a low voice, and Ziva’s slightly louder responses. Tony sits in the back, with Tim, and doesn’t meet Gibbs’ eyes when his boss looks his way in the rearview mirror.

Ziva’s whole body is tense in the front seat. She doesn’t relax until they reach Norfolk and all four of them bundle out of the sedan and into the fresh, crisp air.

They’re greeted by a Corporal Marcus, who immediately takes to Gibbs and barely speaks a word to the rest of them. Tony’s fine with that, his fledgling headache had erupted into a migraine during their drive, and there’s an annoying tickle in his throat that has him clearing his throat every few minutes.

The two bodies are surprisingly clean, the cause of death a clear shot to the head. Execution style. 

“These aren’t crimes of passion,” he observes almost immediately. “Probably not revenge kills, then.”

Ziva crouches near the bodies and squints at their faces. “How could you possibly tell?” She demands, exasperated.

McGee follows her question up with a statement of his own. “No way you can profile a crime within a minute of seeing it.”

“Okay,” Gibbs says easily, and nods at him before resuming his conversation with Corporal Marcus.

Tony grins at Tim, and hunkers down opposite Ziva, peering almost boredly at the bullet wound that ended Alex Claine’s life. He’s used to not being believed, which is why there’s nothing more than a dulled pang of hurt as his explanation is taken with a grain of salt.

“There’s no sign of bruising anywhere visible on the victim,” he explains swiftly, settling back on his haunches. “There’s only one shot - the killer didn’t care about suffering or pain beforehand - and from the looks of it, they weren’t dragged in here to be hidden. This is where they were before they were killed. These are clean kills - _too_ clean.” He mimics the sound of a gunshot, holding his hand up to the victim’s forehead before dropping it suddenly. “There’s no emotion here.”

Nobody says anything for a long while, so Tony just shakes his head and stands, turning on the camera for photos. It takes Ziva several moments to roll into motion, and McGee simply stands with a stunned look on his face until Gibbs snaps at him to do something useful.

Tony’s sketching the bodies when he hears Marcus say under his breath to Gibbs, “Your boy’s something special, ain’t he? Getting all that just from the bodies?”

Gibbs doesn’t say anything, but when Tony sneaks a glance, he’s smiling into his coffee.

. . . 

Abby’s music is so loud today that Tony can feel the beat thump through his bones, which means that Abby’s having a sad day too. It must be the rain, he muses, as he glides over to her and wordlessly tucks her into a hug.

“Hey Tony,” she says into his shoulder. She sounds dull, and Tony understands.

“Hey Abs,” he says, equally as dull. 

Today is a Kate Day for Abby, which means solid black lipstick and no choker and lopsided pigtails. Tony makes sure to gently tug on one as he pulls out of the hug, just to coax a smile to her face. 

In thanks, she slides him a single blue M&M from her stash, which is tucked away in a small crevice behind some empty vials. Tony eats it just so Abby will smile wider and brighter. He likes making her happy - even when Kate hangs over them like some kind of lame, invisible ghost.

“Okay,” Abby says, forcefully shaking away her melancholy. “The bullets you found embedded in the floor were definitely the same bullets that killed the two Petty Officers. I found trace amounts of blood on each bullet, and matched them to the samples Ducky gave me. I’m pretty sure they’re from a sniper, given that neither vic shot from their own weapon, and there was only one shot - one _accurate_ shot - per person, but I’m still running some diagnostics to confirm. Did you find any casings?”

Tony shakes his head, and laughs when Abby groans. “Good work, A-b-b-y,” he signs shakily, fingerspelling her name with an intensely concentrated look plastered across his face.

Abby’s cackle is delighted, and when she hugs Tony again, her grip is much tighter and she feels less like she’ll disappear if Tony holds her too tightly.

That’s how Gibbs finds them, Abby clinging to Tony, who’s clinging back just as tightly. He clears his throat, fixing them both with a stern look as they separate. “Gibbs!” Abby cheers, and grabs onto Tony’s arm. “Tony’s learning sign!”

Gibbs raises an eyebrow and uses his one free hand to sign something that’s too fast for Tony to follow. “Hey!” he protests. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Gibbs snorts and hands Abby her usual CafPow!. He offers Tony the only coffee cup left in the tray, and the paper bag he’s got hanging from his fingers. “You haven’t eaten yet,” he says with a shrug when Tony gives him a strange look. “I’ve already had a coffee this morning. Decided halfway here I didn’t want another one.”

When Tony takes a reluctant sip of the hot drink, he can taste the hazelnut syrup and knows Gibbs is a lying bastard.

But unexpected relief keeps his mouth shut. The coffee soothes the irritating tickle at the back of his throat and eases the tightness in his chest just enough that Tony can breathe deeply for the first time all morning.

He lets Abby take over the talking, instead retreating to her desk to investigate the slightly greasy paper bag that Gibbs had handed him. It’s housing a warm cinnamon bun, he discovers, gleefully starting in on the pastry.

Kate had proclaimed cinnamon buns disgusting shortly after joining the team, and since she’d ordered most of their take away during their cases, Tony had given up on ever tasting one at work ever again.

But of course, Kate’s dead now, and Tony’s free to eat what he wants.

He stops eating the cinnamon bun suddenly, the sticky sweet treat revolting in his stomach. He doesn’t know where the thought came from, he just knows that now he’s thought it, it won’t go away. It lingers in his head.

Kate’s dead.

Tony objectively knows that she’s dead. He got her blood on his face when the bullet tore through her head - just like a bullet had torn through Alex Claine’s and Martin Denver’s - and he’d gone to her funeral once Ari had been taken out of action.

But there’s something in him that stalls at the bluntness of it all. He’s still thinking of her as ‘gone’, as ‘absent’, and not fucking _dead_.

He puts the half-eaten cinnamon bun back in the paper bag, and sweeps it into the bin. He doesn’t want it anymore. He eyes the mostly-full cup of coffee consideringly before deciding to leave it for the moment. This is Gibbs being _nice_ again, being _kind_ , being _understanding_.

He must look like utter crap if his boss feels like he has to babysit like this. 

Tony reaches out and pushes the coffee into the bin. He’ll pay Gibbs back later.

Without warning he coughs, harshly, into his elbow. It hurts more than it probably should, and fear paralyses him as his chest squeezes. He’s not supposed to get coughs. Ducky says it might just be the thing to finally kill him.

(He’ll see Kate again if he dies-)

No. Don’t go down that road. 

Tony swallows back the itchiness with determination and brushes a hand over his lower face. His lips feel chapped and dry. He has some balm up in his desk drawer. He’ll use it when he gets back up there. It’s probably nothing anyway.

“Tony,” Gibbs calls, and when Tony looks up, the man is frowning. “C’mon. You and I are gonna start investigating the other sailors that just got home on the _USS Gettysburg._ Ziva and McGee can handle family interviews and background research.”

Tony nods dutifully, already getting to his feet and shuffling back over to Abby. Leaving Ziva to talk to the families probably isn’t the best bet, and he opens his mouth to say that, but instead he chokes out another painful cough.

Abby winces. “Jeez, Tony,” she says, “you dying or something?”

“Or something,” Gibbs answers for him, when Tony only manages a weak smile and a gentle pat to Abby’s face. “I’ll get him checked over by Ducky before we do anything.”

Tony pulls a face that makes Abby laugh, before he straightens his shoulders and slowly signs his goodbye. Abby’s excited fingers are too hard to follow, though, so he leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead instead of trying to decipher what she’s saying. “See ya, Abbs.”

Gibbs nudges him in the direction of the elevator, and Tony goes without complaint. He hates subjecting himself to Ducky, but there’s no way that Gibbs will let him go anywhere or do anything if he thinks Tony might be getting sick. 

Gibbs is being nice today. It’s gonna make Tony’s life hell.

. . . 

Ducky doesn’t have many complaints about Tony’s lungs, or his overall health. He protests Tony’s standing in the rain for a good ten minutes before Gibbs steps in, but he doesn’t think there’s any real danger yet.

“A dry cough is just a cough,” he says with a raised eyebrow and an expectant gesture at Tony. “If it morphs into a wet cough - if you start coughing phlegm up - that’s when our problem starts.” He fixes Tony with an intense look. “Now is not the time to downplay your health, Anthony. If you start coughing anything up, you tell Gibbs or me _immediately_.”

“Yes Ducky,” Tony drones with all the impatience he can cram into his voice. He sounds petulant, he thinks, and it makes something in his chest creak. Because petulant is something Tony DiNozzo excels at, but it’s something that makes him cringe upon self-reflection.

His NCIS-established personality is starting to chafe, and it fucking hurts. Because this is where he thought he was going to build up the real him. He thought that he’d settle himself into his niche, with a family who admired him, and he’d finally be happy.

Seems that he’s destined to always end up with families that never care about Anthony DiNozzo.

Gibbs taps the back of his head, softer than he usually would, and Tony grits his teeth even as he snaps to attention. It’s not even a lovetap, but it makes his headache explode into high definition, which sucks because Tony had just been about to bitch to Gibbs for his too-careful hits.

Ducky purses his lips thoughtfully. “On second thought,” he says, voice careful, and tactfully lacking any kind of smothering worry, “perhaps we should keep you desk-bound, as a preventative measure. Light duties only.”

Immediately, Tony is up on his feet and making a beeline for the elevator, calling over his shoulder, “C’mon boss, we got sailors to investigate!”

Gibbs shakes his head, gives Ducky a very pointed look, and follows his agent into the elevator without protest. He doesn’t give Tony another one of those assessing looks, doesn’t look at Tony at all. It stings a little, but Tony’s used to Gibbs’ attention being everywhere but on him, so he chooses to focus on fiddling with his shirt cuff. It still isn’t lying quite as flat as he’d like.

He really, really wishes he hadn’t ruined his good suit.

“Don’t be a dumbass and stand in the rain, then,” Gibbs says flatly, and Tony jolts as he realises he must have said it outloud. “She wouldn’t have wanted you sick because of her.”

Tony knows who ‘she’ is. He hates that Gibbs knows too. 

“To be honest, boss,” he says hotly, too wound up and cold and sad to even care about filtering, “I don’t give a rat’s ass what she’d have wanted. Because she’s dead, and I’m getting a little tired of her haunting me.”

Gibbs falls silent again, glances at the roof like he’s looking for Caitlin Todd. Tony bites back his bitter little laugh and falls silent too. How talented he is at screwing up every single relationship in his life.

The elevator dings, signalling their arrival to the bullpen. Tony frowns. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that investigating meant being at his desk, with McGee off to his right. Investigating, in his mind, means questioning, interviewing, talking. 

Hadn’t Gibbs just said that McGee could handle basic research?

Gibbs is already striding out of the elevator, but Tony digs his heels in before he can take a full step out onto the floor. “boss,” he says, slightly too loudly. Gibbs pauses expectantly. “I thought Probie was on research?”

“McGee’s assigned to investigate Denver and Claine. You and I need to look at everyone _else_.” 

That makes sense, when Tony considers it. Can’t interview an entire ship's worth of people if there were only a handful that knew their victims. Gibbs throws his hands out. “Are you coming, DiNozzo, or do you wanna whine some more and waste my time?”

His chest tightens and a cough climbs up the back of his throat. It fucking _hurts_. “Coming boss,” he says diligently, and gets out of the elevator.

He doesn’t feel the heavy look Gibbs gives him as he scurries to his desk.

. . . 

They get one name from the six people they interview. It’s the only name they’ve got to go on; Ziva gets nothing of importance from the families. It must pain her to admit it, but she tells Tony that he’s right. There’s nothing here that indicates a revenge killing.

“I can’t believe you guessed that just from the crime scene,” McGee mutters to himself as Tony beams at Ziva smugly. 

“It’s not guessing, McGoo,” Tony says brightly, still grinning at Ziva, who looks awfully close to stabbing him with something sharp. He spins on his heel to give his attention to McGee. “It’s a comprehensive understanding of kill shots and human behaviour. You should get it - Kate taught both of us to profile a scene.”

Kate.

It always come back to Kate, and Kate, and Kate, and Kate, and _Kate_ -

Tony’s grin freezes, while metaphorical ice is poured over his metaphorical body. By that he means he gets really damn cold really damn quick, but there’s no ice in sight. He’s played a prank on himself, but instead of laughter, he’s just made everyone miserable.

“You don’t talk about her,” Ziva notes carefully, watching him and McGee with an intensity that makes him bristle. “Your Kate.”

His mouth tightens to a sharp, razor-thin line. “Because she’s not a topic we talk about, Officer David.”

Too harsh, too angry. He’s gotta dial it back. He’s gotta-gotta handle this the way he handled it _before_. Light-hearted and nice, and the support that everybody else needs. McGee is already shaking a little bit, and Tony hates it _so much_ because McGee was never supposed to be a piece in their fucked up little puzzle.

Ziva is watching him too closely, and Gibbs is coming down from MTAC. Tony has T-minus 5 seconds to fix what he’s just broken.

He coughs a laugh and stitches a smile onto his face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Katie heard me talking about her from beyond the ground. I’ve seen the movies, Zee-va. I like my apartment the way it is without a ghost haunting my ass.”

When Gibbs slaps his head, it’s his usual full-force. “Don’t speak ill of the dead, DiNozzo.”

“That’s what I was saying, boss!”

He wants to say more, wants Ziva to stop _looking_ at him like that, but Gibbs is already advancing on McGee for an update on the case, and there’s another cough itching to be let loose. He rolls his shoulders, forcing away his tension. He’s gotta put himself back together. He can only fall apart on his own.

He grabs a file off his desk, blind-siding Ziva and writing her off with an absent smile, and hurries over to Gibbs. “Okay, Chief Petty Officer Jack Shelby. Enlisted for the Air Force before switching to the Navy halfway through basic training. He received and dealt with the minor penalty with grace. Nothing negative in his file except a few complaints that he’s ‘too strict, too old-fashioned, and too much of a kiss-ass’.”

“There’s a written commendation from a Lieutenant David Miles, as well as a reference from his old Air Force officer - one Andrew Litman,” McGee chimes in. “Both promote Shelby’s work ethic and professionalism, and there’s nothing to suggest either of them have an opinion on Shelby’s rumoured disposition.”

Ziva picks up from there. “Shelby is in interrogation for you, and both Litman and Miles are remaining available for contact while the investigation is open.”

Gibbs nods and takes a long drink of his coffee. He looks tired, Tony notes, like he's spent too many nights by his boat with only alcohol for a companion. As far as Tony is aware, there are no anniversaries, no deaths, no reason for Gibbs to lock himself down so tightly. 

Maybe he’ll talk to Ducky about it. 

“Alright.” Gibbs clears his throat. “McGee, get down to Abby and see if you can get anything about our killer. Ziva, I want you behind the screen during the interrogation. Note down whatever sticks out about Shelby’s behaviour, his speech patterns, anything that might give him away.”

“You think Shelby is our murderer?” Ziva asks as the team bustles into action.

Gibbs shrugs. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Tony throws the remote for the plasma screen to McGee before hurrying after Gibbs, who’s already marching towards the elevator. “What am I doing while you’re questioning Shelby, boss?” he asks breathlessly, cramming into the elevator before Ziva can. She glares at him. He grins back.

Gibbs takes another drink of coffee. “You, Dinozzo, are gonna be the one doing the questioning.”

Okay, look:

Anthony DiNozzo has worked with Leroy Jethro Gibbs for a very, very long time. Long enough to have a solid read on what behaviours exhibit what emotions, what actions betray what thought processes. Gibbs, despite popular belief, isn’t that hard to read. People just don’t try hard enough.

This is important to know, because there’s a set way that cases work. Tony rarely does the interrogating on a straightforward case like this. He interrogates when his behaviour is needed, when there’s nobody else who can get under a suspect’s skin like he can.

He doesn’t lead interrogations if there are other people available. He just doesn’t. It’s something he accepted a long time ago.

So Gibbs handing off the interrogation of one of their main suspects sets off every alarm bell he has, and his eyes are immediately drawn to Gibbs’s face. He looks tired, but not sick. There’s no hint of injury, no sign of bubbling rage. His usual tells are absent, meaning this isn’t fuelled by a personal vendetta.

“Keep staring at me like that, DiNozzo, and I might think there’s something on my face.” Gibbs doesn’t sound irritated though. He doesn’t really sound….anything.

McGee and Ziva have both gone stock-still and silent, staring straight ahead in an attempt to remain unnoticed throughout the brewing argument. (And it's going to be an argument, because there’s so many things that Tony and Gibbs haven’t said to each other. It’s going to come out one day.)

Tony gapes for another moment before clearing his throat and saying, “Is there somewhere else you need to be, boss? An emergency or something?” It’s the only thing that makes sense to him, because Gibbs never needs him for something like interrogation-

Gibbs raises an eyebrow, a hint of emotion finally coming back into play. “You questioning my judgement, DiNozzo?”

_Yes_ , Tony thinks, followed immediately by, _He’s used my last name more times in the past five minutes than in the past five weeks._

He tears his eyes away from Gibbs face and stares at the back of Ziva’s head, jaw working as he swallows down a cough and an accusation. “No boss,” he says evenly. “Just surprised.”

“Well, don’t be.” Gibbs finishes his coffee as the elevator dings, Ziva and Tony loading off and then turning to watch their boss expectantly. He waves a hand. “I’m heading down to Ducky. I wanna see what he thinks of the bodies.”

The door closes before anyone can say anything else. Tony’s last look at McGee has the probie agent looking significantly more afraid than he had been before. He sniggers, even as something heavy settles in his stomach. His hand immediately goes to his left shirt cuff, which still isn’t lying flat.

Gibbs is grooming him for something. Not to be team lead - Tony doesn’t need any grooming to take over - but something else. Something more. Something he hasn’t told Abby or Ziva or Tim about. Something he hasn’t told _Tony_ about.

_He doesn’t trust you_ , something whispers in Tony’s head and he shudders. 

A hand gently grips his wrist and stops him from fiddling with his shirt cuff. He finds Ziva immediately, frowning at her soft eyes and downturned lips. “What’s up, Zee-va?” He asks, too loudly.

She sighs. “I did not mean to upset you earlier.” She gestures up towards the roof. “When you mentioned Kate, I thought it meant that you were ready to discuss her. I thought wrong. I am sorry.”

Oh Ziva, where does he even start?

Tony gently twists so that the grip she has on his wrist slips and he can grab onto her hand instead. He squeezes once, softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to talk about Kate,” he tells her quietly, “but that’s on me. You’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

She squeezes back, once, and then drops her hand. Tony lets her. “Come,” she says abruptly, smothering any kind of gentleness to the moment. “You have a suspect to question and I have some notes to take.”

. . . 

Chief Petty Officer Jack Shelby is a weasley man with ginger hair and a permanent haughty look on his face. He’s clean shaven and polished-looking, but despite his personal hygiene routine, his skin is oily and pocked with marks, and his hair is perpetually greasy.

Tony walks in, takes one look at him, and smiles.

“Afternoon,” he greets absently, staring down at the file in his hands and moving across to his seat. Sanctimonious perfectionists break easily when their perceived authority is blatantly disregarded, and he has a feeling that Shelby is going to be one of the softest suspects to date. “My name is Agent Tony DiNozzo.”

Shelby snorts. “You’re an agent?”

Tony looks up at him with a raised eyebrow, before sliding his badge across the table. Shelby takes a good long look at it before shaking his head and glancing away, but Tony makes no move to take it back. There’s no hurry right now. He’ll let Shelby simmer, let Ziva get a feel for the man, and _then_ he’ll start.

Minutes crawl by slowly, and while Tony peruses his file, Shelby starts shifting and huffing. Tight-asses are rarely patient, and Tony plans to exploit that as much as he can. He’s had the practice, after all.

(Would Gibbs be taking this approach? Tony doesn’t know.)

“For God’s sake!” Shelby explodes after five more minutes of complete non-activity. “Get on with it!”

Tony blinks at him slowly, schooling his expression into one of confusion. “Get on with what, Jack?”

“Officer Shelby,” the man corrects through gritted teeth. “Chief Petty Officer Shelby.” Tony shrugs. “I’m in here for a reason, obviously, and if I am not made aware of those reasons, _now_ , I must demand that you allow me to return to my house. I have been at sea for 12 months, _Agent_ DiNozzo, and I do not appreciate my time on land being stripped from me improperly!”

Tony shuts the file and places both arms on the table, leaning forward. “Do you have a girlfriend, Mr. Shelby?”

The ginger man bristles at the improper address. “No,” he sniffs. “It would be inconvenient to my job.”

“A boyfriend, then?”

“No!” Shelby’s offense is palpable. “To suggest such a thing is preposterous! It’s morally wrong to believe in such acts, and damning to go out of your way to support them. For your information, I have no significant other because it would be unfair to her, being away so often and for so long. Perhaps when I retire.”

Tony makes a face and writes down a few of his own notes on a spare notepad. He’d already made some assumptions about Alex Claine and Martin Denver. This might just support them. “Why’d you transfer to the Navy, Mr. Shelby?” he asks. “You’d already started training in the Air Force. Why change?”

For a long moment, Shelby says nothing. His nose twitches, brown eyes crinkling as he stares down at the table. He looks oddly solemn, his twitchy haughtiness replaced by a stillness that Tony recognises as regret. Perhaps even grief.

“The disciplines were different,” Shelby says finally, and his voice has finally lost that squeakiness. “Harder to have a drug problem in the Navy. orAir Force never looked the right way at the right time.” He glances up at Tony, making proper eye contact for the first time. “I watched a friend give himself up to cocaine, Agent DiNozzo. I knew that I wouldn’t have to watch it again if I joined the Navy.”

And that…

That isn’t what Tony had been expecting at all.

Hell, the military works hard to ensure that drugs aren’t a problem - random urine tests, regular bunk checks. Sometimes there are rewards for turning in someone who abuses substances. But Shelby isn’t wrong: with the Navy being out on the water, it’s harder to sustain an addiction. Air Force is always landing before launching. Nobody’s going to drug test you while you’re flying a jet.

Tony understands, now, just a little bit. It doesn’t help Shelby’s case at all - in fact, it might make his chances at a solid defence a little slimmer - but Tony gets it. He does. He’s seen friends go through the drug cycle. It had damn near tore him apart, too.

He makes sure to ease the tension out of his voice when he speaks next, a nod of respect to Shelby’s sudden vulnerability. “I need a name, Officer Shelby. Of that man from the Air Force.”

This time, Shelby doesn’t hesitate. “Peter O’Brien. I was the one to bury him - his wife didn’t want anything to do with him.”

Okay. Tony turns to face the mirror behind him and nods. He’s not done with the interrogation, not by a long shot, but he needs Ziva to know that this is important, that she has to back him up on this later.

“Alright,” he says, exhaling loudly and sliding two photographs across the table. He leaves them next to the badge that he still hasn’t reclaimed. “Do you know these two men?”

A flicker of recognition in his eyes, appearing only for a second before Shelby shakes his head. “No,” he says, and Tony might even believe him if he isn’t so aware of people’s tells. Shelby’s tell is easy to pick up: he flicks his thumb out, like he’s striking a match with his own nail.

Tony hums and pulls out two more photographs, this time of the dead bodies. He takes careful notice of Shelby’s reaction. His recoil is cleverly done, but the genuine sparkle of horror is missing. This is their killer, right here. Tony’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

“We’ve had six other people tell us that you _did_ know Alex Claine and Martin Denver,” he says hotly. “They say that you routinely singled them out, picked on their smallest behaviours. Why is that, Jack? Why’d you target them?”

“I don’t know them!”

“You gotta stop lying to me, Jackie.”

“It’s Chief Petty Officer Shelby, you ingrate! And I’m telling you that I don’t know who these men are!”

Tony leans back and rifles through the folder again, pulling out a sheet of paper. It’s a list, and he’s highlighted three names. “Chief Petty Officer Jack Shelby,” he reads loudly. “You worked alongside Petty Officers Alex Claine and Martin Denver, it says so right here on the ship’s crew log.” He throws the paper carelessly at the man across the table. “I don’t know why you’re trying to hide that - it’s easily accessible information.”

“If you’re so all-knowing about who I was stationed beside,” Shelby sneers, “why ask me in the first place?”

“Easy,” Tony says with a lazy smile. “It was a test. Spoiler alert: you failed.”

He’s already gathering his papers to leave when Shelby gives a wordless shout and smashes a fist into the table. “You’re a bastard!” Another flat-palm strike to the metal. Tony badge goes skittering. “How dare you accuse me of murder! Even if I did do it, you should be thanking me! They were animals! They needed to be put down!”

How close to the edge does a man have to be to cycle though so many emotions in the span of half an hour? Tony doesn’t know, but Jack Shelby’s face is doing an impressive imitation of a tomato, and his loss of control is both a confession and a warning.

Jack Shelby murdered those two men. Had all but admitted it. 

Jack Shelby might murder more if Tony’s team can’t find a way to make the accusations stick. The ravings of a half-mad man would never hold in court, and Tony can’t bear to let a murderer walk free all because he fucked up an interrogation. 

He hadn’t read Shelby right at all, had pushed at all the wrong triggers, had picked the wrong tactic, had done everything that Gibbs _wouldn’t_ -

Tony gathers his file, takes back his badge, and walks out of the interrogation room. Even after he shuts the door, Shelby’s yelling sticks with him, merging with his headache until there’s a choir of madness banging around his temple.

He coughs once, twice, wincing as agony flares up and wraps around his chest like a vice. He coughs a third time, a fourth, and feels something catch in the back of his throat. He swallows it back down. 

“Tony?” Ziva’s cool voice soothes the ache in his head a little, and he opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) and gives her a tired little grin. “Are you alright?” He gives her a thumbs up. She shakes her head and loops her arm through his, gently leading him back towards the elevator. “That was a brilliant interrogation.”

He snorts. “Nah. Gibbs would’ve done it better.”

“ _Gibbs_ does not have the capacity to adapt to Shelby’s rapid emotions. You do. I believe that if anyone else had attempted to interview that man, we would not have part of a confession, only a demand for a lawyer.”

Tony doesn’t bother arguing, if only to save his throat. 

Ziva’s words are kind, but untrue. She’s being _nice_ to him, like Gibbs had been _nice_. Everyone is being _nice_ and Tony wants to shout and scream until they all just went back to normal. He likes normal, knows how to deal with normal. 

Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo _knows_ normal. 

Tony doesn’t know what to do with _nice._

Ziva looks like she wants to say more, but her cell trills with an incoming call and instantly her mask is sliding back into place. “Hey Abby,” she says, answering the phone. “Yeah, Tony’s with me right now.” She glances at him. “Okay. We’ll be right there.”

She hangs up, and Tony guesses what she’s gonna say. “Abby’s got something?”

Ziva presses her lips together. 

They get into the elevator in silence. Tony thinks that the only way this could get better is if Gibbs were there too. May as well gather everyone that he’s disappointed and let them tear him to pieces.

He deserves it. He’s been waiting for it. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. He’s been messing up a lot lately. Kate would’ve said something about it by now, if she wasn’t already six feet underground and rotting.

Tony coughs into his fist.

He moves fast enough that Ziva doesn’t see the blood.

. . . 

“The bullets that killed our two Petty Officers definitely came from a sniper,” Abby tells them excitedly. “M40A1, standard Marine issue.”

Gibbs frowns at the screen, looking perplexed. “A1, you’re sure Abbs?” He gestures vaguely at the displayed weapon. “They changed to the A3 only a few years ago. The A5 model is coming soon. He couldn’t have bought this recently.”

“Right,” McGee says, sounding completely undeterred by that tidbit of information. “The M40A1’s were used in the 1970’s up until roughly 2001, so while it’s not Jack Shelby’s gun, it likely belonged to his father James, who was a Marine until he was wounded in ‘88 post-Vietnam War and forced to retire. It’s entirely possible that he tracked down an M40A1 for his own personal use after he retired, and then gave it to Jack.”

“He was a sniper, Gibbs,” Abby finished, beaming. “And I bet he taught his son everything he knows.”

It all….well it all made sense, really.

This case is frustrating to Tony, because it’s easy. Everything makes sense, everything lines up. There’s nothing challenging, nothing that puts him to the test. Nothing that can make him justify coming in, pulling himself away from Kate’s grave and the rain.

“There is one thing that I have not yet put together,” Ziva says slowly, like she’s afraid of ruining Abby’s vibrant mood. Gibbs nods at her. “Why Claine and Denver? We have reports that Shelby was targeting them, but why would Shelby kill them, and not the other way around? If a murder were to occur between those three, one would think that it would be Claine and Denver doing the killing.”

And Tony hates it, but he has an answer for this too. “Ziva, remember what we said about the bodies, right at the beginning?”

“They were shot where they were,” McGee answers for her, when she only gives Tony a flat look. “We-We discussed it because Tony mentioned it was probably more convenient than anything.”

Tony clicks his fingers at his probie. “Right. So what were Claine and Denver doing in a shipping container together? Why hide away?” Still, she stares at him blankly. He sighs. “Ziva, did Claine or Denver have romantic partners?”

Finally, a spark of understanding. She shakes her head slowly. “Both of their families said they had no girlfriends, and they definitely were not married.”

Tony tilts his head in Gibbs’ direction, swallowing sharply. “You know where I’m going with this.”

Gibbs drains his coffee and dumps it in Abby’s bin. “Two gay men in the Navy are prime targets for a hit,” he says darkly. “Especially with someone like Shelby, whose blatant homophobia and uptight behaviour would pressure him to resolve the problem in the most absolute way.”

. . . 

From there, it all wraps up rather swiftly.

They raid Shelby’s house, immediately finding the weapon. Abby confirms that the model is a match, fingerprints are lifted, and Gibbs goes into the interrogation room with nothing but a coffee and comes out with a confession. 

Jack Shelby is arrested for two counts of murder, but makes one last request to speak to Agent DiNozzo. Gibbs, surprisingly, allows it.

“You understand why I had to do it?” Shelby whispers to him desperately. “I lost someone because they turned into something ugly. I couldn’t let it happen to two more.” His eyes plead with Tony to understand, to accept it, to offer him forgiveness and compassion.

Tony can’t muster any of those things. Instead, he can only say, “I lost someone too-” and he’s talking about Kate, always about Kate, “-and you know what I did?” Shelby shakes his head frantically. Tony moves in close, drops his voice. “I buried her, and then I went on with my fucking life. You and I aren’t gods, Shelby. We’re just sad men on different ends of a spectrum.”

The last thing Tony DiNozzo ever hears from Jack Shelby, is a yelled curse and then silence.

. . . 

Kate’s gravestone has dirt on it.

It’s not raining yet, so it stays dirt, and Tony brushes it off with his hand, not a cloth. It’s cloudy and cold enough that he’s snuggled into a coat, but even that doesn’t allow him warmth. Typical Kate, never letting him have the things he needs. 

That’s okay, she can keep his warmth this time. She needs it more than he does, wherever she is. Tony’s ordinary, boring car has a good heater. He’ll live. Kate won’t, because Kate didn’t. It's a simple fact, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

It should - surely he’s betraying Kate in some way by not keeping the pain fresh in his heart. These days, instead of heartache, he finds himself nursing physical ailments. His cough, headaches, chest spasms, shortness of breath.

He knows these symptoms. 

_Kate_ knows these symptoms. 

Kate’s fucking dead, and Tony almost wants to be too, so who really cares? Maybe Gibbs, maybe not. Maybe Abby, maybe not. Maybe McGee and Ziva, probably not. There’s one person Tony knows would care, and she’s under his feet right now.

“Oh Katie,” he whispers, crouching down and closing his eyes. “What do I do now?”

The clouds break.

Rain starts to fall.

Tony throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs. “Only you,” he wheezes, even though it’s not funny. “Fuck, Kate, only you would make it rain on me while I’m here trying to be nice to you.”

_‘Nice?’_ he can imagine her whispering, sitting just on the other side of the gravestone. She’s wearing something casual, jeans and a sweater, and she looks nice. _‘This is you being nice? I’m glad I didn’t see it while I was alive.’_

“Ah, Kate,” Tony says, and laughs until it hurts. Rain glides down his face, leaping from his chin in a shining moment of glory before dashing into pieces on the ground and soaking into the dirt. “Oh, Kate, there were so many things you didn’t see while you were alive.”

She smiles at him, warm and loving and every inch the golden girl he’d known and loved. _‘I was shot in the head, Tony,’_ she tells him, and doesn’t sound sad about it. _‘Just like Alex Claine and Martin Denver. They missed out on things, too.’_

Yeah, they did. 

Tony sobers immediately, eyes drawn to Kate’s face. “Two men,” he muses, maneuvering from his crouch into a mimicry of Kate’s cross-legged position on the ground. “Two men whose only crimes were to love each other.”

It’s hard to think about. Because Tony makes those jokes - Kate had, too. It’s natural for him to mock anything that makes him feel unsteady in his masculinity. His father had been absent for a lot of his childhood, but boy did he drill in the important things. 

_‘Loving who you love isn’t a crime, Tony,’_ Kate says, wise even in death. 

This time, his laugh is bitter and full of grief. “I loved _you_ , Katie, and now look at you.” He gestures uselessly at her wet gravestone. “You’re dead. Claine and Denver are dead. Ari’s dead. Fuck it, Shannon and Kelly are dead too. Loving who you love just gets people _killed_.”

Kate doesn’t seem to have a counter-argument. Instead, she settles against her own gravestone and watches the rain fall. Tony shifts a little, so he’s beside her. He’s beyond drenched. His pants and jumper and coat could wash a car, his hair is in complete disarray, and he can’t feel his skin.

But Kate’s here with him, so he’s gonna be just fine.

_‘You must miss me a lot,’_ Kate says to the rain.Tony hums questioningly. _‘I left you so alone. With Gibbs, and McGee. Abby. Ducky.’_ She rolls her head to look at him. _‘Did you get a chance to mourn me, Tony? Before my funeral?’_

He has an answer to that on the tip of his tongue, but a cough tumbles out instead of the two-lettered confession. It’s a harsh fit, squeezing his ribs and shredding his throat. Red-stained mucus flings out of his mouth, and he chokes on the blood that follows.

Kate sits there and watches him calmly, the rain giving her skin a soft glow.

“Sorry,” he croaks, wiping at his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Kate.”

She brushes a finger against his cheek. Tony can _feel_ it, he knows he can. _‘We both know you’re dying again, Tony,’_ she murmurs lovingly. _‘There’s no need to apologise for that.’_

There is. There _is_. He has to apologise for everything, because he never did it when she was alive. But he can’t force the words out, can’t make his heavy tongue form the apologies. All he can do is cough and shake and gasp for air.

_‘Only one of us is supposed to be dead,’_ Kate says absently, turning her attention away from him. _‘How do you think Gibbs would feel if he lost me, and then lost you too?’_

“Gibbs has always needed you more,” Tony manages to choke out, and it hurts because it’s true. It’s always been true, and it will always be true. Gibbs will always need someone else more, love someone else more, trust someone else _more_.

Tony was hand-picked to be forgotten.

Kate clicked her tongue. _‘Oh Tony, you never did realise how important you are.’_

And then she’s gone.

And Tony is still dying.

He fishes his phone out of his sodden pockets, coughing more and more with every stuttered inhale. His cell, wet and miserable but still working, lights up with a small ring. A faithful little thing, he’ll admit. 

His trembling fingers fumble over the keypad, tripping over the familiar keys. He only needs one number, only needs to get Gibbs’s attention long enough to call for backup, but his fingertips keep slipping and his vision is wavering. 

Frantically, he brings the phone closer to his face, peering at the keypad. He just needs to dial #1. That’s all he needs, and then Gibbs will come save him. Gibbs always comes to save him.

He presses a key, prays it’s the right one. 

The phone is bucking wildly against his ear, barely held in place by his frozen fingers. Three rings in, and Gibbs still hasn’t answered. Rule number...Ruler number _something_. Never be unreachable. 

Why isn’t Gibbs answering? Tony needs _help_ , and nobody’s coming to help him. Poor little Anthony, always left out in the cold, always left behind, always without backup. Always the kid who stays in his room because Daddy doesn’t love him and Mommy’s fucking dead.

Just like Kate. Kate’s dead too.

“Gibbs.” The name is a growl against his very numb ear, and Tony gasps at it. The phone is strangely warm. It’s comforting almost. “DiNozzo! What’s happening?”

Tony’s kind of sleepy now. Talking with Kate’s made him so very, very tired, and the wet grass seems soft enough for him to rest on for a while. “Sorry boss,” he mumbles, and then starts coughing again. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

“Rule number six,” Gibbs says automatically. “Never say you’re sorry.”

_Weak, weak, weak_. Tony groans, because yes, he is weak, but he’s also tired and lonely and sad, and Kate’s waiting for him somewhere warm and quiet and dry. “S’rry boss,” he slurs, and then the phone falls away from his face and he collapses against a dead girl’s gravestone.


End file.
